The posters for Wasiu Alabi Pasuma's show went up a few days beforehand. The one in the window of the West African Market on Baltimore Avenue was a black-and-white photocopy with poor resolution.

Pasuma-who performs Nigerian Fuji music-seemed like he was trying to evince a rapper manner in his photo-with a backward baseball cap, a baggy shirt and hand gestures that, though semiotically unclear, convey hip-hop style. It was nothing like the traditional garb of King Sunny Ade, whose much slicker poster was also in the window.

Pasuma's show took place last Saturday night at the Brown Street Salvation Army complex that had all the earmarks of a high school gym-including giant floodlights that kept the room harshly overlit.

Though the large band of about 12 people was there by midnight, no more than 30 people had arrived by 1 a.m. By 2 a.m. some 50 more people had come, but the show still hadn't started. Someone in attendance remarked that the show was running on "African Standard Time."

The same won't be true of the upcoming Blue Horizon appearance of Nigerian superstar King Sunny Ade, which is set to start promptly at 10 p.m. (doors open at 9). But it'll go until 3 in the morning-allowing plenty of time for Nigerian crowds to arrive.

In the past KSA, as he's most often called, has played by Stateside music rules here: early shows with concertlike sets that generally attract a mostly white world music crowd. But the Blue Horizon gig is slated to be an authentic African dance party-African Standard Time for sure.

King Sunny Ade is Nigeria's most well-known innovator of juju music, an energetic and highly danceable pop blend of multiple electric guitars and African percussion. Though it's upbeat and accessible, it can also be multilayered and musically complex-attracting an astonishing range of listeners. As the undisputed king of this popular genre, KSA commands an importance in his country that can't be overstated.

Like a less contentious Fela Kuti-or, to use a U.S. comparison, like Russell Simmons-he blends music with business ownership and social justice in a way that makes him beloved. Nigeria's president calls on him to perform at major public events, and he's widely recognized abroad, selling tens of thousands of records in Europe and the States.

But what his foreign fans don't realize is that they're not seeing KSA perform the way Nigerians see him perform. For all the vibrancy and fun of his shows here, they lack two central practices that make Nigerian music shows exceptional: praise singing and spraying.

Praise singing is an extravagant musical form of societal validation in which the performer acknowledges the contributions of the people in the audience. Philadelphia businessman and music manager Gbola Laosebikan, a Nigerian native, is well-versed in the practice. "It's a way to appreciate what the members of the community do," he says.

A good praise singer, says Laosebikan, can simply hear a surname and spin a narrative of that person's family going back six generations. It's a combination of the musician preparing ahead of time-finding out who'll be at the concert-and understanding the etymology of Nigerian names.

"A name alone allows you to know where a person is from and who their father is," says Laosebikan. "The aspect of names is very powerful in this culture. And for most musicians, this is their job, so they do their homework."

In response to having your family history recounted in front of other community members, some audience members will "spray" the performer in appreciation, getting onstage with them and sticking dollar bills to the performer's sweaty forehead or otherwise showering him with money. The sprayers themselves gain community acclaim if they develop a unique sense of style, so the interchange between performer and sprayer can go on for quite a while-or until the sprayer's money runs out.

The problem with praise singing and spraying in the States is that most music venues, due to liability issues, aren't fond of having audience members jump onstage. That makes authentic African dance parties virtually unheard of here.

"This tour is a big experiment," says KSA's former international manager Andy Frankel, who lives in Philly. "When he comes here KSA draws an 80 percent world music crowd, with a few Nigerians. Because they like to spray and do praise singing, you can never get Nigerians out to [American] nightclubs. With this tour we've decided to bring the two worlds [Nigerians and world music fans] together."

KSA will attempt to recreate the Nigerian dance parties in just six cities: Philadelphia; Chicago; Detroit; Washington, D.C.; Atlanta; and Los Angeles. By promoting to the world music crowd and the Nigerians simultaneously, says Frankel, he's preparing for a two-pronged musical experience. World music fans can come on the early side and hear the music as they usually would, and the Nigerians can stick around to spray, or come later when the spraying and praise singing really get going.

Frankel, whose Philadelphia-based music label Indigedisc just released a KSA compilation called Synchro Series, moved to Philly from Seattle last year to become director of the Philadelphia Volunteer Lawyers for the Arts. The city's large and diverse African community, estimated between 50,000 and 100,000 people, was one thing that attracted him. "But Philadelphia," he says, "is a deeply and sadly racially divided city, and it doesn't need to be. This concert is something we hope will bring people together in various ways."

Gbola Laosebikan also sees the potential for bringing people together at this show-but perhaps for different reasons. "This concert is important and historic," he says, "because it's the first show that bills very prominent musicians from both the Yoruba and Igbo cultural groups."

King Sunny Ade's special guest for the tour is Prince Obi Osadebe-son of legendary highlife musician Chief Stephen Osita Osadebe-who's inherited much of his father's audience and prestige. Though the juxtaposition of the two musical forms seems like a natural pairing to outsiders, juju is the music of the Yoruba people and highlife is the music of the Igbo-two groups with a rivalrous history.

Before 1966, when civil war broke out in Nigeria, the Yorubas and the Igbos-and the largest major language group, the Hausas-didn't focus on the differences between them, because they were subtle.

"It used to be hard to find distinctions between these groups," says Laosebikan. "After the civil war, though, all of a sudden people realized they were Yoruba, Hausa or Igbo. But there shouldn't be this gulf or distance between them. Sometimes we're so caught up in our differences that we don't see our similarities. These two groups are more similar than dissimilar." When people are enjoying themselves, Laosebikan says, it's easier to see their commonalities.

But will the Nigerian community come out? "That," says Laosebikan, "is the million-dollar question. You never know. All it takes is a snowstorm."

Frankel has been trying to get the word out in the mainstream press and is also working with local Nigerian churches. He's even got a street team. Frankel's record label is a labor of love, and so is this concert.

"Nigeria is a troubled country," Frankel says, "with a bad rep. While it's earned that rep, it also has so many rich and beautiful things. And if 100 million people in Nigeria think something's wonderful, isn't it worthy of our attention?"
-Liz Spikol